


Good Omens Ficlets

by mevima



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Flirting, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-07-19 03:50:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19967566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima
Summary: A collection of short stories based on Good Omens. Ratings in each chapter.





	1. Theology Lessons (G)

“Does God make mistakes?”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale stares at him. This must be some sort of demonic trick, the sort that takes a while to get around to its point and leaves you feeling foolish and a little dirty.

“Does. God. Make. Mistakes?” Crowley repeats slowly, leaning back on the newly-built Temple in Malta and kicking his feet idly, as if he had all the right in the universe to question the Almighty.

“Well, of course She doesn’t! That’s preposterous!” Aziraphale can _feel_ his wings ruffle at the thought of it.

Crowley nods, satisfied, and turns to look out at the rising sun. “Then She made us right, didn’t She? I mean, we must be doing what She intended, if She can’t make mistakes.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, can’t answer, still feels he has been tricked somehow - but something settles easier in his skin.  
  
*  
  
Millennia later, Aziraphale finds himself repeating the demon’s words in a plea to the Archangel Gabriel, who seems perturbed at his line of thought.

"Mistakes? You’ll get demoted, talking like that. Be careful, Aziraphale. Don’t question divine ineffability.”

“All I’m trying to say is - ”

Gabriel loses what little patience he started out with. “Maybe your purpose is to test us, hmm? Maybe _your_ purpose in the Divine Plan is for us to make an example out of you to _proper_ angels.”

It feels wrong in so many ways, but Aziraphale can’t find the words as to why. He’s let off with a warning about getting too close to The Enemy, and spends several decades carefully out of sight.

*

After it’s all over, Crowley looks smug, kicking his feet on his customary park bench which seems to mold itself to him in defiance of physics. “Told you we were right, angel. Told you She made us just the way She wanted us.”

“I suppose you were right,” Aziraphale concedes graciously. “Or at least, I hope you were right. Who can tell?”

“There’s the spirit.”

Who can tell? Now the world is wide, and bright, and safe - for the moment - and _theirs_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at the same account name. :)


	2. Good Night, Westley (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the title isn't too obscure.

It was the night after the end of the world. Crowley and Aziraphale had made all the plans they could think of, and they had retired to the living room of Crowley’s flat, drinking whatever extravagant alcohol they could get their hands on.

“Sssoon’s morning, we’ll ssswap, yeah?”

“You’ve said that three, ah - three times now.”

“Oh. Right. Good.” Crowley upended the bottle of far-too-expensive wine again. “You know we’re probly both gonna… gonna die tomorrow, right? Poof. Gone. No more… usss.”

Aziraphale was not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be despite keeping up with Crowley drink for drink. “Yes, I rather think you’re right.”

“Hey, s'not all bad.” Crowley waved the bottle vaguely in Aziraphale’s direction and toppled over gently. He came to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, grinning up at him with unfocused yellow eyes and too many sharp teeth. “Leastaways we’ll _both_ be dead. ‘Magine if…. if only one of us went, eh? How horrible that would be! Alone forever. 'N sssomeone else’s face.”

“Best not to think about it.” Aziraphale’s arm went round Crowley’s shoulders, an intimacy he hadn’t allowed himself before… all this. Crowley fell silent.

“Angel?” he asked after a moment, sounding subdued.

“Yes, Crowley?”

“I’m really… very, very drunk.”

“I know.”

“…angel?”

“Yes, Crowley?”

“Kiss me.”

The raspy whisper echoed too loud in the bare flat, and Aziraphale swallowed hard. But for once in their six thousand years, he couldn’t find a reason to refuse. Crowley stared up at him unblinking, impossibly vulnerable, forehead screwed up tight and mouth turned down in an exaggerated pout. The bottle lay forgotten by his side.

White-gold hair bobbed as Aziraphale crossed the long inches separating them, murmuring, “Yes, Crowley,” before pressing their lips together for the first, and possibly the last, time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at the same account name. :)


	3. Worse than Destruction (T)

"No fucking way. Not an option."

"Crowley, we've been going over this for hours, there is no other option - "

"We'll come up with one!"

"Really, I'm sure I can handle a bit of unpleasantness - "

"It's _Hell_ , Aziraphale! It is not 'a bit of unpleasantness,' you have no idea what you're getting into!"

"Agnes was very clear - well, at least as clear as any prophecy from several centuries ago could possibly be - "

" _Fuck_ Agnes!"

"Crowley!"

"Angel. Aziraphale. I am begging you, and you know I hate begging. Do not go to Hell in my place. Please."

"The alternative is almost certainly destruction."

"Some things are worse than destruction!"

"Crowley... certainly it can't be that bad."

"..."

"Crowley?"

"Have you ever felt burning sulphur running through your veins?"

"What? Surely they wouldn't do that to me - er, you."

"Oh, better. They'd do it _because_ it's me. Demons aren't exactly _picky_ about who they torment, and they've never liked me for all my sass and escape. Now, demons with a grudge? That's the _least_ of what they'd subject me to, except it wouldn't be me, would it? It'd be you!"

"I..."

"Have you ever been drowned in ice water, then dropped onto a sssizzling hot slab of metal? These aren't even inventive, angel. This is what we do for _fun_."

"Crowley, stop."

"No! Not until you understand!"

"I _do_ understand! I understand that you are trying to stop me from saving your life by _frightening_ me, and it _isn't_ going to work!"

"You're being an idiot - "

"You can't insult me out of it, either!"

"Aziraphale!"

"We are doing this. It is the only way."

"...you won't come back the same."

"I swear to you, I will endure. For your sake. For _our_ sake. Oh dear, I've never seen you... are you... crying?"

"'m not crying."

"Of course not. Come here. We'll manage this and it will all be over."

"Demons don't cry."

"Demons don't save the world, either. But we make do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at the same account name. :)


	4. Indulgence (G)

Aziraphale fidgeted on the cold bench while the headsman of the Bastille nattered on. Really, Crowley was dreadfully late, and if he took much longer, the angel would truly have to miracle himself out of the situation. Not that he couldn’t if pushed that far, of course, but there was something, well, titillating about being _rescued_ , about someone caring enough and daring enough to whisk him away from danger.

The headsman was really quite annoying, though, and Aziraphale pursed his lips, spitefully considering a tiny miracle just to give the man an itch he couldn’t manage to scratch away. Honestly, did the French have nothing better to do than wax poetical about their awful murdering machine? He much preferred the crepes they’d come up with.

It was a relief when time finally froze. The angel’s face lit up in a bright sunshine smile he couldn’t quite control, exclaiming as he turned to face the demon responsible. There was a moment out of alignment before Aziraphale could arrange the required disapproving frown, and he watched the amusement pass over the smug bastard’s face, a play they had been enacting since the dawn of time.

“Good Lord,” he muttered, to cover his relief with a thin veneer of offense.

Crowley filled his role fantastically: gently insulting, ridiculously self-satisfied, dressed just past the edge of fashion and edging into indecency and anachronism. As the cuffs slipped off Aziraphale’s wrists, he fought the urge to bite his lip, the thrill of an expectation fulfilled and the turn of a dance completed shivering through his unseen wings.

They would go on pretending the angel had been helpless and the demon had gallantly rescued him, having decadent meals together which Crowley never touched, and flirting along the fine line of danger they’d spiraled into over the millennia. And if Aziraphale breathed a little faster at the rare brush of their fingertips, well, he could hardly be blamed for the responses of his God-given body.


	5. Six Minutes, Twenty-Two Seconds (E)

"How long can you hold your breath, my dear?" Aziraphale asks, apropos of nothing.

Crowley wrinkles his nose, confused. "Long as I want? You know that."

"Hmm. Under normal circumstances, perhaps. But how long do you think, while I'm doing _this_?" There's a mischievous twinkle in Aziraphale's eyes, the kind that shows up when he knows he's tweaking the rules, and he twists his wrist, sliding his thumb over the head of Crowley's cock to make absolutely sure the demon knows what he's talking about.

Lifting shamelessly into the touch, Crowley bites his lip. "Dunno. Never tried."

"Oh, how delightful. Let's try now. For me?" The bat of Aziraphale's eyelashes is completely unnecessary -- and completely ridiculous, imagine trying to look innocent with his hand so slick and intimate -- but Crowley isn't laughing. He whines when Aziraphale squeezes, already on edge from long, insufferable, wonderful torment, and then remembers himself and presses his lips together tightly.

No breath means no sound. No groan when Aziraphale picks up the pace, no gasp when he digs his thumb into that sensitive spot under the head, no cry when he bends down and plies the slit with his tongue, teasing, teasing, always teasing. Crowley's face grows red with the effort not to breathe; he doesn't need it but his body begs for it. No breath means no easy outlet for the agonizing heat coiling sinuously through him, stoked higher by gentle teeth and questing fingers. It has nowhere to go but deeper, sizzling his nerves until even his fingertips are shaking. He rocks his hips instead, trying to relieve the pressure, twists up great handfuls of blanket, twines his legs over Aziraphale's back, opens his mouth in a desperate, silent plea.

The only sounds in the room are the slide of fabric and the obscene wet noises Aziraphale is making as he _toys_ with him, fucking _bastard_.

Six minutes, twenty-two seconds. Somehow the edge of his mind has kept track of time through the twisting, taunting pleasure; six minutes before Crowley breaks. He sucks in just enough breath to choke out his ecstasy in high-pitched, ragged pulses, thighs uncontrollably taut against Aziraphale's shoulders, and Aziraphale drops the cruel teasing like a discarded shawl. Every heaving gasp brings another jag of pleasure, the sudden freedom of air making everything brighter and harsher, and Aziraphale keeps pushing until Crowley clutches at him in protest.

When Crowley finally, blearily blinks his eyes open, Aziraphale is radiating smugness over him, idly stroking Crowley's bony hip. Crowley doesn't wait for the angel to ask; simply to watch his lover's lips curl in satisfaction, he rasps, "Six minutes."

"And twenty-two seconds," Aziraphale adds with a grin. Crowley flushes. "That's quite respectable. But, darling..." He leans in, nuzzles at the line of Crowley's jaw, and whispers, "Let's aim for ten next time."


	6. Alone (G)

I was alone in Heaven, but I was never lonely.

I had the stars to keep me company. I had galaxies to paint, nebulae to weave, and gas giants to carve into existence, all designed with the greatest care and beauty. And of course, I had Mother.

We talked about everything. The Universe, my siblings, ideas to make the next solar system bigger and brighter. We spoke of the tiny creatures She was just beginning to form, built of atoms and stardust and carbon and life. She shared the future with me, and I with her.

She spoke to me always, until She didn't, and suddenly I knew loneliness.

The War took everything from all of us. The angels remaining believe that they're righteous and holy; they're not. The Fallen, we think we are rebellious and independent; we're not. We are all lost, and broken, torn from our siblings and waiting, forever waiting for just one more word from our Mother.

Mother stopped speaking to me, but I never stopped speaking to Her, trying to fill the hole in my heart. It may have been only cursing or raging or pleading, but I never stopped and never will. She is there. She must be.

None of us will ever be whole while there are divisions like this. The Host is cracked asunder with endless fighting, and for what? The right to revenge? The right to be holy?

We are all lost. But I, I may have found a beacon.

I can almost hear Her, when I stare hard enough at his cherubim smile and his ophanim hair. When I watch his simple joys and his flustered lectures and his endless delight, I can hear Her whisper, just barely out of reach. I wait for Her, I pray for Her, but She is silent. Instead, here he is, perfect and real and hope, oh, the hope of connection.

The hope that he is Her message to me: here, my love, I have gifted you with happiness, with my favored creation as a companion, as a reward for your patience, as a balm for your loneliness.

It burns, that hope. I want to hold it in my hands like an ember and I cannot bear the possibility it could go out if I touch it. I want to twine closer and closer to him, hoping the beat of his immortal heart will finally let me hear Her again.

Maybe it doesn't matter, as long as he's near me.

The Host is broken, every Fallen and every angel too. A shadow of our former selves, waiting to be put back together. Waiting for a day that may never come.

Perhaps I can forge myself back together in a different way.

Perhaps my angel is the key to repairing the black hole of myself. I never intended to collapse and drag it all with me.

Mother, if you still listen, let him make me whole again.

I am so alone without you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come see me on [Tumblr](http://mevima.tumblr.com)!


	7. Mesopotamia (T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally part of my Ineffable Inktober NSFW Edition. This chapter was deemed not smutty enough to play with the big boys. ;)

Aziraphale hadn't truly been surprised to find a gaggle of children hidden away in the back of the Ark's hold, behind the stored crates of food. Only a thousand years since they'd met, and he already knew Crowley well enough to expect that the demon would find some way to rescue humans in defiance of God's will.

In a carefully–concealed corner of himself, Aziraphale envied the demon's ability to do so.

A few weeks after the waters began to rise, when the foothills were underwater and the mountains were beginning to disappear as well, Aziraphale told Crowley that the children couldn't stay hidden forever.

"Noah is a man of God. A good man," he coaxed. "He wouldn't kill children. They should at least get some fresh air."

"A 'man of God' is exactly the problem," Crowley hissed, but allowed himself to be convinced.

The appearance of a dozen or so children certainly shocked Noah, but Aziraphale thought he looked relieved as well. The order to let everyone drown hadn't sat well with that one; the only thing that kept him to plan was knowing it had come direct from the Almighty. Noah's sons and daughters were happy to have something to break the monotony, at the very least.

Even after securing their safety, Crowley stayed on board. Aziraphale wasn't sure if it was because he didn't have anywhere else to go, or if the demon wasn't ready to let the children out of his sight, but Aziraphale was grateful for the company all the same. There's only so long one can act the graceful and imposing guardian angel, after all, and Aziraphale had never been very good at staying distant.

A month passed, then two. The rains stopped and the Ark drifted, surprisingly calmly for a huge boat full of animals. Noah's family and the children had their care well in hand, and there was nothing at all for the two celestials to do.

The humans treated Aziraphale and even Crowley with such deference that it made both of them uncomfortable, and they ended up spending most of their time together in the hold. They spoke of the last thousand years: where they had been, what they had done, what new inventions and ideas the humans had come up with. They talked and smiled and laughed and after a while, it didn't even seem strange.

Still, they had been adrift for months, and if reports from their respective sides were true, they would be here for months more.

Aziraphale and Crowley were getting _bored_ , which perhaps explained Crowley's conversational bid.

"Have you ever had sex?" he asked one night, turning a coin idly between his fingers. Useless thing, really, now that civilization would have to be rebuilt, but it was pretty nonetheless.

"Oh, of course," Aziraphale responded easily.

The coin fell to the wooden decking with a clatter.

"Wait, what?"

"I don't know why you're so surprised," Aziraphale sniffed. "I am here on Earth to care for the humans, and how am I to do that if I haven't experienced humanity?"

"Yeah, but. But." Crowley pointed a finger accusingly at him. "You're an _angel!"_

"In a human body, mind you. I do have all the working parts."

"It's a sin!"

"It is _not_. Really, I don't know how that myth got started."

Crowley stared at him for another beat. Aziraphale frowned. "What?"

"Isn't it... you know... squishy?" Crowley sounded uncertain.

"Sometimes. And intimate, and enlightening, and delightful. Wait, you _haven't_ had sex?" Aziraphale asked in surprise.

"Why would I do that?"

"You're a demon! It's practically in your job description!"

"Isn't in _my_ job description," Crowley grumbled sulkily. "I just tempt, I don't do."

They fell to silence, just thinking for a moment. Crowley found his coin again and rubbed it between his fingers.

Eventually, Aziraphale asked, "Would you like to?"

"What? Like to what?" Crowley eyed him suspiciously.

"Would you like to have sex with me?" Aziraphale clarified, blinking innocently.

Crowley jerked, then managed to choke and lurch to his feet at the same time, nearly falling over in the attempt. "And that concludes our conversation! Got things to do, people to see, you know, demon's work is never done – good bye and good night!"

Aziraphale watched him go, and laughed softly.

There was something heavier in the way Crowley looked at him after that.


	8. Ancient Erotic Texts (T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally part of my Ineffable Inktober NSFW Edition. This chapter was deemed not smutty enough to play with the big boys. ;)

Aziraphale didn't truly consider any of his books expendable. If he had collected it, he wanted to keep it. But there was still an order to them. The front of the shop, for example, contained the common texts – first editions, yes, and most of them signed, but copies he could generally replace if needs be.

In the back, where absolutely no customers were allowed, he kept the works of art: scrolls, hand-written manuscripts, books dating hundreds of years back with personalized inscriptions.

And in a specially miracled chest in his oft-unused bedroom, Aziraphale kept a special collection.

After some reflection, Aziraphale had to admit that he couldn't blame Crowley for finding his collection. He hadn't declared any of his possessions off limits, and they were practically living together nowadays anyway. But he still bristled instinctively when he found the demon on his knees in front of the open chest.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said slowly, almost dangerously. Even from behind, he could see the demon stiffen. "I recognize that you are being extremely careful with my belongings, and I appreciate that, given their age."

He moved forward, hands out in a calming gesture. "But, Crowley, what you have in your hands is one of the _original scrolls of the Kamasutra_ and you will _put it down this instant_. Carefully!"

Aziraphale couldn't see Crowley's face, but he watched like a hawk as the ancient, fragile scroll was placed reverently back into the wooden chest. Only then did the demon turn to face him, and his expression was _delighted_.

"How could you not tell me you have a secret porn stash?"

"I do not have a secret porn stash!" Aziraphale sputtered. "It's not _pornography_ , not that there's anything wrong with pornography per se, but – those are _ancient erotic texts_ and they are of great historic value!"

"You have the original fucking Kamasutra – "

"I have a few of the scrolls, is all, they were collected into a complete edition later on – "

"You have Sappho – "

"She was a very passionate woman!"

"You have _Istanbul bloody 2461_ , and I don't mean a copy, you have the _fucking letter she wrote_ – "

"How do you know so much about these?" Aziraphale blinked, startled. "You're not exactly into books."

"Angel." Crowley stood, hands clasped together, and he positively beamed. "I have the best present for you. You are going to love me until the end of time."

Aziraphale couldn't be blamed if he were a bit suspicious at Crowley's tone. "That last comment notwithstanding, what exactly are you talking about?"

"Oh, _angel_." Crowley finally reached him, and framed Aziraphale's jaw delicately between his hands. "Catullus wrote poetry about me. And I have the originals."


End file.
